I’ve noticed that lots of writers do poems or prose pieces when they come upon significant birthdays and since I hope to be a writer if I grow up, I thought I’d mention that I turned 60 this month. A herd of my compatriots, all born in the Year of the Horse, 1954, have done  Read the Rest…

In an effort to prolong the aura of my recent thirty hours in Portland I am writing up notes made over a bowl of beef stew in the Heathman Hotel restaurant.  My former piano student Anna got me a rate at the hotel “where service is still an art” through her work at Rubicon International  Read the Rest…

A week ago I would have told you that I loved William Wordsworth. After reading the selections in the Norton Anthology of English Literature, I have concluded that it’s only a few of his poems that I love, and a few lines from here and there. I was all excited to read The Prelude because  Read the Rest…

Though I live in a major Seattle neighborhood, the city sidewalks end two blocks south of me.  This is rather a point of pride for some of us.  In my case, it gives my street as it runs north alongside Crown Hill cemetery a country feel.  I can see the street from my studio window  Read the Rest…

When I take a walk to the south of my house, I usually begin with a slight jog east through Crown Hill cemetery because the only reason to go due south is to visit my neighbor Gwen who knows something about just about everything.  Gwen is not a point of interest on a walk: she’s  Read the Rest…

I was in Portland this weekend.  Oregon.  I was there just long enough to know which way to turn when I stepped out of the elevator without having to squint at the hall sign, trying to determine if 415 came before or after 428. I traveled down on the train. I had a stack of  Read the Rest…

Last week before the lilac fell and Gwen, my neighbor who knows something about just about everything, brought her chain saw over to lay waste both to the tree and to any fragments of male chauvinism in this neighborhood of powerful women, I had written a series of politicizing, sermonizing, sarcasmizing blogs posts which prompted  Read the Rest…

When I was a student at Whitman I had little interaction with the town of Walla Walla.  These days, the town is part of the fun of the visit. But being a Whitman graduate it’s hard to match wits with people outside the college.  Here are three vignettes: As a student I once rode my  Read the Rest…

I could write a whole post about eating my way through Walla Walla and then put up a few photos of me bloated from days of wheat and sugar.  But I won’t.  At least I won’t post the photos.  But here are some notes from the weekend’s menu: In my Postcard from Walla Walla I  Read the Rest…

I am taking a break from raging against the Catholic church and breathing feminist fire to sing a little song of Walla Walla, Washington.  I am here to do a book signing at Book and Game Co on Main Street and to stay with my college roommate Putzer, the attorney, and her husband, Jim. My  Read the Rest…